


If It Wasn't For Your Misfortune

by Peqoud



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Self-Harm, in which snotacon/otasune is real but snake's fucked in the head, it's hinted at getting better!, set post shadow moses but in a weird timeline of sorts, snake takes antidepressants, so he's just remembering things, the beginning is snake on his own going through a breakdown, this isn't a feel good fic. the end is like eh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peqoud/pseuds/Peqoud
Summary: David has an awful time adjusting to civilian life.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	If It Wasn't For Your Misfortune

**Author's Note:**

> This was created the 31st of July, 2018, and has been in my gdocs for quite a while so :-P i thought i'd freshen it up, and post! not for pity points but this was written i believe during a breakdown so.... king of mental health
> 
> i hope you enjoy <3
> 
> title inspired by Blue Monday '88 by New Order

Dave’s nails clawed at his face, the liquor on his fingers burning into his flesh. They felt crooked, foreign. He could say the same about what he thought was his face, misshapen in the broken glass of the mirror that was inches away from his knees, inches inside of his palms. He could make out his broken nose, busted lip. So warped, so fake in the reflection. Not a dream, not a nightmare. His observation was that the more bones he broke, the more scars that formed on this fake visage, the more real he felt. What’s the harm in knocking yourself out? Maybe then he’d wake up in a world that felt  _ real _ .

The bathroom he confined himself into most of the time was small, with only room for one person to be in it. The bathtub took up most of it, hugged the right wall and the frame was coated in a light dust. The tiles on the walls and beneath his body were cracked, either from the apartment’s age or from forcing his face into them to feel alive. What would you call it? Desperation, he wasn’t so sure.

Flinching. Harsh noises of scratching against the bathroom door brought him to, miserable and worried barks and whines snapping him out of his daze. Blankly staring at the door. Thoughts of someone busting down and through, elbow and shoulder and bone hitting the wooden frame hard enough to splinter. A handgun, hastily drawn but held with all the intent of a professional. A pistol, a revolver; it wouldn’t matter in the end. Staring down into the barrel seemed so real, too real, and he felt sick. His bruised fingers swatted the air, knocking the gun from his imaginary attacker. 

He lurched in with a shard of glass, swiping at the attackers legs. The strike had no force; his wrist was loose, and his movements were inhuman. Mouth filled with blood and fangs out, like an abused dog fighting back. He spat at the feet, at the black, military grade boots mocking him in his mind.  _ “You don’t live up to the name ‘Snake’, Snake.”  _ The voice was familiar, but lacked… familiarity. He knew the words, he knew the tone, he knew the boots it all belonged to yet he just couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t Master Miller, nor Campbell - someone. Someone he could only hunt in his mind. In the depths of his dreams until his fists came baring down messily, like a playground fight. Children, but with guns and knives - forced adults who run around in frilly dresses and light up shoes caked in dirt and blood. 

And eventually he’s picking out the glass from his hands, washing the dried liquor off of his fingers from the broken bottle. He dabs cold water to the back of his head, and the wound to the front that looks like a lake you’d find buried deep within American forests. Winding. He keeps himself propped up on the edge of the bathtub, knowing his legs are too weak to hold himself up for long. The emergency med-kit that was usually kept beside his toilet was balanced next to him, using his training to sew the wounds in his hands shut professionally, and then the one in his forehead. After winding bandages around both injuries, he finally opened the bathroom door to be greeted by a swarm of dogs, their loud whines slowly allowing himself to cope with being in the real world.

His footing was awkward and miserable but the animals around him held him up, caring for him in the easiest of ways. His hands brushed through some of their fur as he ambled to the kitchen, forcing himself to manually pour dog food, one by one, into each of their bowls, and water into the ones besides. The rhythm was comforting as he took a proper stance. His toes curled and uncurled against the cleaner, yet colder tiles of the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed the rain, but it seemed to make his world come crashing down. 

Staring out the window, into the endless distance of lights in the city and rain hitting the pane. He didn’t handle civilian life well, but his psychiatrist told him that most soldiers  _ didn’t _ . He hadn’t seen her in a while, but he hadn’t done a lot of things in a while either. Taking his medication for example - it ran out a few months back, and he’s been unable to replace it since. The only thing that kept him alive was the animals padding at his feet. Guilt built up in his chest and stomach as he pulled on his clothes, then boots, then a jacket. His clock had stopped working so he couldn’t tell the time, and he refused to look at his phone. It was probably broken, anyway. Walking the dogs in the dark seemed fine to him, and to them too. 

Being outside was surreal. It was pitch black, but blinding. His dogs kept him balanced, physically and mentally. Whenever he strayed, or his breath hitched, or his legs began to shake, they were there. It probably wasn’t safe to have Dave out by himself, but the pack was there to protect him, and the sounds of their skittering paws was enough to keep him in the moment.

A pack and a half of cigarettes could be found strewn around in his jacket. Half smoked, ashy stubs that crumbled in his pockets next to fully, slightly bashed ones. Besides the dark askewing his view, the flickering lights played the part of bringing him back to Zanzibar Land - light filtering through the thick leaves of the jungle. He thought back to his earlier apparitions; heavy and thick boots that taunted him. Maybe it was Ocelot, maybe it was Miller. Maybe it was -  _ Big Boss was dead _ . He was dead. There was nothing that could have brought him back. Not his thoughts, not the larger-than-life  _ idea _ of him, not the fact that he  _ was the best. Was.  _ Thinking about it made Dave laugh. The type of laugh you make when someone jabs their thumb right into you, seeking out your weaknesses, anything that can allow them to have a foothold over you. Presses their thumb right into the center of your chest, like you’re nothing but the body of something long hollowed out, that they can dig out with their nail. It was a…  _ defensive _ gesture, the laugh. Hollow and uncertain, that’s all it was.

Big Boss was nothing. Dead, and nothing. The body of an infamous soldier who was nothing short of a legend. He didn’t need convincing that Big Boss was dead; Dav- Solid Snake bested Big Boss, twice, and came out on top. Despite this, he still felt… inadequate. Decrepit, deformed by his own hands trying to scar him up better than any mission ever could. Boss hiding in the back of his mind and coiling around the part’s he hated the most about himself, strangling them, forcing the ideas to front until it pushed Snake to the brink. Interrogated by his own brain. A vile way to go.

He was neck high in salt-water when he snapped out of auto-pilot. He could taste it on his lips, sinking into his throat, feel it burning the wounds that hadn’t had time to scab over. Militaristic panic flushed through his blood, forcing himself head first into the sea, kicking out to propel him further under. He twisted, unnaturally, stared upwards at the sky for what seemed like hours. Trying to catch the movement of an explosion, of the sky falling under. He dwelled too much into the past, too much into “if”s and “but”s, too much into things that seemed to hunt him for sport. His brain was the trophy hunter; his body the trophy. Hang his head up on a wall, bandana and cigarettes included. 

Eyes close. Lungs empty. Passing like this would suit him fine. It wasn’t heroic. It was peaceful. The reflection of the moon walking on the water. Being another number in a percentage was fine to him, until his panic turned more feral. Teeth had latched onto his legs and his arms were thrashing out, forcing himself to the surface before his potential attacker -  _ attackers _ \- could. They managed to drag him back to the shoreline moments before his nose could pierce through the veil of water. He lapped in the air immediately, forgetting every ounce of his training as he lay on the edge of the beach, half naked and aching. Surrounded by dogs who drank in his presence. He examined the marks from his attackers in his legs like they were tattoos, ingrained and ready to be scratched out. They were just… teeth marks. A team effort. He sat up, and let the panic flush through his blood and exit through his body as nothing more than sweat. Hands brushing through their thick coats like the waves forcing itself through the sand. Gentle.

His clothes weren’t too far away. Tucked underneath the pier so they wouldn’t be too easy to steal, not like he had anything valuable on him. Apart from $20 made up of quarters inside an old leather wallet and the key to his apartment, along with a packet of cigarettes… there was nothing that you’d be inclined to take. You’d probably be embarrassed to search through it. David had nothing to be embarrassed of, though. It wasn’t his fault, in particular. Just his circumstances, his misfortune.

Sunrise was something that brought back very peculiar fears, so he had his back turned to it as he got dressed. Zipped up his pants, tied his laces, threw on the shirt and jacket and a smoke in his mouth. With a whistle he rounded up the dogs, like he used to after he resigned - retired - the first time. He hated the noise.

  
  
  


_ His breath mixed with the smoke from the cigarette dangling at his lip. Watching huskies play in the snow - it was designed for them, better than anything else was. Their paws that made light work of manoeuvring their bodies through the playing field, their coats that shook off the dampness and kept them warm. They were both… animals, in tune with their surroundings, yet so unlike. An animalistic survival that divides them. _

_ Sometimes Dave saw himself growing the fangs of a viper, staring down into the last remnants of whiskey in his glass. Could feel them pushing against his lips as he peered into the eyes of his soul at night, a dribble of venom caught in the hook of his chin. Scales piercing through his scars, furious scratching unable to peel them off. _

_ That sense of being isolated from his body, he blamed it on his dysphoria. It didn’t feel right being in a body he didn’t trust, didn’t see fit to exist. He just saw his flesh as a weapon of war, something that could be used to stop something else, allow other people to live at the expense of  _ himself _. In the grand scheme of things, wasting his life for the many was practical. Dying in some special operation, real name unknown and lost in his own voice. He was just a mercenary. _

_ Having a break, a year or two break, from the idea of war was… soothing. He leaned against the wooden fence that stopped him from toppling over into the heap of snow in front of his cabin, taking a drag of smoke into his lungs, down and up through his trachea and exhaled through his nose. His thumb crisply creased against the letter he was holding. It seemed… urgent. Both Master Miller and the good colonel had signed it, unlike the other letters. _

_ He turned the pages over with a slight bend of his finger, coiling his fingers around the cigarette, moving it off of his lips with a ‘ _ pop _ ’. A lollipop, with a higher chance of killing you. _

_ “Hrrmf.” _

_ He pressed the lit end to the corner of the pages and let the paper slowly dishevel itself in the flames. It filtered out from under itself, nothing more than ashes that landed on Snake’s boot. Kicked it off, crushed them under the weight. _

_ McDonell Benedict Miller wasn’t one for writing him letters, it was usually just a misplaced phone call while he went through his business of paperwork and training. Roy Campbell was the one for letters, though. He often begged him to come out of retirement, all the letters seemed to be like that. They were friendly enough though; he was a good man. They just - _

  
  
  


Didn’t understand. Couldn’t, even. What felt like him falling out of his body, phasing out of his control, had been happening for days now. Months, even, but he hadn’t checked the date or time in a long while. The letters he received from his landlord, or from the company that handled his insurance, were the only things that kept him grounded. They were still horribly misdated by the time David got around to reading them. 

The passing of time was nothing more than a task. A grueling sense of everything being too slow, too fast, too exhausting to keep track off. He seemed to follow his own time schedule- he guessed that, on a ‘good’ day, it’d take him an hour to drink a can of lager. On a bad day, maybe less than five minutes. On a  _ really _ bad day, he’d already have the bottle of vodka smashed against his skull and glass in his mouth and his own blood dry on his fingernails. That was one way of telling the time in that cuckoo clock brain of his.

His clothes seemed to pick up his own scent of salt water and sweat. Tugged off, thrown over the back of a couch he picked up outside the building. It was old and worn and broken, but it was comfortable to sleep on so he had to give credit where it was due. 

David slipped over his feet, into his own room. It was probably the emptiest room in the apartment. That fact probably didn’t alleviate any of David’s ailments. The walls were bare apart from a poster that was shoddily holding itself together. The poster was a swimsuit model, in red, and the face was taped over by a photo of Hal smiling. He looked so… happy. Dave couldn’t recall the last time he heard Otacon’s voice and the thought sometimes kept him up at night.

He stopped calling once he realised that Hal and Sunny were better off without him. He hadn’t picked up his phone since, and it lay dead and dusty on his coffee table as a constant reminder of his failures. Hal was… something special. In all his years as a military man, he never quite managed to fathom how someone like him got caught up in death and destruction, and how Sunny was pulled into it too. Hal wasn’t perfect, nor was he himself, but he still made the conscious decision to -

  
  
  
  


_ “-love you.” _

_ Dave pushed him away with a smirk, palm flat on his face and askewing his glasses as he playfully snorted. His hands flew back into his pockets, fumbling for his lighter, having given up his big gloves to warm Hal’s lanky hands. “Don’t say that, c’mon.” He cupped his hands around his mouth as he lit the cigarette in between his lips.  _

_ “You-” He poked at him playfully, an edge of realism dabbled in. “-you know you can do so much better. Don’t say that word when you know someone else can fill my own boots better than I can.” A defensive laugh, cold air blown into chocky smoke, lay adrift above their heads. He shook his, a moment of small disbelief. _

_ Hal sighed. It was hearty; worn-out. His head lay against Dave’s shoulder, and he stared off into the snow. It was a miracle he could see anything with his glasses fogged up by his own breath. “... I wish you wouldn’t say that.” _

_ "There's a lot of things you wish I wouldn't say or do. I'm not perfect," he moved with his back against the fence, foot dangling over the other. "Never claimed I was, and there's no point in trying to change that now." _

_ "I'm not asking you to." Hal sounded resolutely defeated, heart in his throat. Neither of them were good at this, whatever this was. It felt like a game they played that no one could win, could only see your heart being driven by the villain's sword through your chest. He got up to leave, pushing himself off the fence, already sick of having to confront his own emotions as well as Snake's. _

  
  
  


It was for the best that he left. Dave knew this from the top of his head to the bottom of his bones. They would both live alone for the rest of their lives and die without the other. Sunny would grow up and become better than himself, bigger than his body and his legacy. He wasn't much without his blood, without the reminder that he was the exact same as Big Boss in every capacity. She was different, though. Untied to just Olga Gurkulovich, but from himself, from the genius name of Otacon. Sunny was her own, and he was proud of her. She had no name, no corporeal body - she was the Sun, ever burning, too good to be true.

He found himself afraid of being a father. He was afraid of becoming  _ him _ , and yet he still made the exact same conscious and unconscious decision to leave. It’s not as if this was what he really wanted, but he didn’t get a choice in any of this.

Maybe something would come from his death. As he picked at the skin from his face, he hoped something would come from it; scratching nauseously at the muscles in his cheeks, ragged beard growing across his jawline. Maybe that was something he didn’t deserve, the knowledge that he’d become a memory ever-lasting.

He scribbled out a note, either a shopping list or a death sentence, and crumbled it between his fingers. Someday his day would come, naturally, rather than on his own artificial volition. Unfortunately, for him and the rest of the world surrounding, it wasn't today.

His attention was caught by an incessant ringing in the background. He half figured it was a bomb ticking, counting down the seconds he had left, until he toyed with the idea of being a free man. Perhaps it was pathetic to think so. He let himself laugh, or gruff, either reality didn’t matter. Dave forced himself up, from wherever he was on his floor, to reach for his phone. 

Hal was calling. David had a reason to live.


End file.
